


(there'll be bluebirds over) The White Cliffs of Dover

by Biscay



Series: Natural Turn [4]
Category: Home Fires (UK TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 17:14:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7114954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biscay/pseuds/Biscay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Great Paxford celebrates the end of the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(there'll be bluebirds over) The White Cliffs of Dover

**Author's Note:**

> [cheerful disregard for certain elements of s2. Title from the war song by Glenn Miller.]

An excited undercurrent has been steadily building across Great Paxford since the news reports, first on the wireless and then in the newspapers, that Hitler is dead and German capitulation is soon to follow. Alison has taken to keeping the wireless on in the background in case an announcement is made, and Teresa hurries home after school each day; Alison greets her by the door and says “not today”, but the disappointment is softened by Teresa's presence. Teresa unpacks her satchel and Alison makes a pot of tea, and even though there's a war still on, Alison selfishly considers _this is enough_. 

Even so, Alison and Teresa are crowded around the wireless – Alison can't remember who first grasped whose hand – when the BBC scheduling is interrupted by Churchill and they both hold their breath. 

The news they have been praying for for six years is matter-of-factly delivered: victory has been achieved in Europe. Teresa pulls Alison to her feet, both of them a little shaky, and Teresa's embrace is as tight and sure as any they have shared before. Alison prepares a quip about being squeezed to death but when Teresa releases her, the joy written all over her face is so wonderful that Alison cannot do anything but lean in and kiss her, tasting the happiness, the relief. 

Alison's cottage is far enough out of the village that before Teresa she had her solitude and after Teresa they have their privacy, but after a while, just as Alison is about to suggest they continue their celebration upstairs, the sound of cheers and revelry makes its way from down in the village up to them. 

Teresa is the first to break away, but presses their foreheads together, a hand still in Alison's hair, keeping her close. “We should probably go and join in.”

“I suppose,” Alison relents. 

“Come on, you heard old Winston - tomorrow's a national holiday. No school; you'll have me all to yourself.”

“I like the sound of that,” Alison says, going in for one last kiss before Teresa rummages around in the kitchen to produce two bottles of the sloe gin they made together last October to George's old recipe. She opens a bottle and pours a little into a pair of Alison's rarely-used sherry glasses, then brings them over.

“To peace,” Teresa says, clinking their glasses together. 

“To peace,” Alison agrees, still barely able to believe it. 

Teresa leaves the opened bottle in the kitchen for later, for their own celebration, but hangs on to the other as she fetches their scarves and Boris' lead. The evenings have lengthened and the early May weather has warmed up enough that they no longer need coats, and as they head outside together everything seems somehow lighter.

The swallows have returned, as they do every year, unconcerned with bombs and Germany's advances, and are carefully rebuilding their nest, hidden under the eaves of their home. Likewise, many of the houses they pass on their walk into town have sustained damage – a smashed window boarded up here, a thatched cottage barely standing after firebombs there – but repairs are slowly underway, the village gradually repairing itself. 

The setting sun has washed the sky with pale pinks and yellows, and the gentle breeze makes cherry and apple blossoms fall like confetti. Teresa takes her arm as they walk down towards town together – nobody would ordinarily bat an eyelid, and Alison is certain nobody would think anything tonight – and the cheers and laughter from the village get louder and louder. 

* * *

Alison didn't think that she and Teresa had enjoyed their private celebration for very long, but as they approach the square, the centre of the village has already been dressed up to the nines. Tricolour bunting has been strung in every direction between buildings, and as they draw closer Alison can see Bryn Brindsley fixing more in place. 

“Hello ladies!” Bryn calls down from atop his ladder, “how's it looking?”

“Steady on!” Miriam says, holding the ladder and passing up what seems to be an endless stream of flags. 

“It looks wonderful, Bryn,” Teresa says, her smile still a mile wide. 

David is standing a little to the side, more subdued than his parents, but cradling little Dilys in his arms. His eyes are on his sister rather than the crowd of people dragging tables outside into the street, but he raises a smile at Alison and Teresa as they pass by.

Frances, naturally, is heading up the celebrations; directing chair placement, instructing where food and drinks should go. Sarah is in too good a mood to even roll her eyes at her sister's antics, and Alison watches her happily spreading her best tablecloths out, unconcerned with stains and spills.

“Good to see you both,” Frances says, drawing first Alison then Teresa into a hug, “oh what a day.”

“It looks like you've got everything under control here,” Teresa says.

“Like she hasn't been planning this for the last year,” Sarah says cheerfully, then offers them both a drink.

Will Campbell, still a little gaunt from his radiation treatment, has Erica on one arm and Kate on the other, Laura in plain-clothes bringing up the rear. The parents' joy is clearly tempered by the sadness in Kate's eyes, but the family settles together at the table and drinks a toast to Jack. It begins as a private moment, but the sentiment cascades down the table, and the cheers of “to Jack” make a ball of emotion catch at the back of Alison's throat. 

She feels so selfish - she lost George a whole war ago. Her personal casualties of this war are some valued clients, some village faces, but nobody she truly mourns. 

Teresa is her usual joyful self, laughing and celebrating with the rest of the village. Nobody but Alison knows how Teresa has suffered; that this war has taken Connie on the SS Alexis, her aunt and uncle during an air raid in Liverpool, a cousin in the Siege of Calais, a nephew at Arras. 

Alison feels guilty – a little survivor's guilt, perhaps, but mostly guilt for being perversely grateful that the war has brought her Teresa.

“Miss Fenchurch, Miss Fenchurch!” a rabble of children dart through the crowd and Teresa bends down to hug each one. A well-dressed child of about eight begins crying in Teresa's arms. 

“Oh, come on Johnny, what's the matter?”

Alison feels like an intruder to a private moment, so turns away just in time to see Joyce and Frances awkwardly embrace, differences put aside for tonight. The sun has nearly set, and people are bringing out lamps of all sizes, outdoor lights no longer banned by the state-enforced blackout.

“Poor thing,” Teresa says as she rejoins Alison, “the little lad doesn't want to go home.”

“An evacuee?”

“Mmm. I think he's found quite a home here.”

“Teresa-”

Teresa discreetly takes her hand. “Not everything to come out of the war is bad. Look at Dilys Brindsley. Claire and Spencer. Pat getting free of Bob. Me and you.”

“I love you,” Alison whispers, and the statement is followed by a rather alarming round of applause; they look away from each other to see that the cheer is directed at a bonfire built up on the hill by Steph and Little Stan, burning brightly, defiantly sending sparks up to the sky.

* * *

The street party continues long after the sun sets; some children are carried to bed in the arms of parents, but the jubilations show no signs of winding down. Spencer and a few others from the church orchestra have brought out musical instruments and songs are flowing seamlessly into one another, a seemingly random mix of music hall songs, hymns and increasingly upbeat renditions of God Save The King. 

Alison, as she is wont to do, uses Boris as an excuse to avoid dancing, preferring instead to watch Teresa – not as clumsy-footed as she claims, enthusiasm more than making up for lack of finesse – dance with most of Great Paxford. She switches between lead and follow, partnering up with Laura, Isobel, even enduring Little Stan repeatedly and apologetically standing on her toes. 

Steph pulls up a chair next to Alison. “Lovely evening.”

“The best,” Alison agrees. “Nice bonfire.”

“Thanks,” Steph says, helping herself to some sloe gin, “Stan's spent the past week or so building it. He's so excited that his dad's coming home.”

There is a wariness in Steph's eyes that Alison doesn't feel qualified to comment on, so she just nods.

“Anyway,” says Steph, changing the subject and reaching across for Boris' lead, “you'd best go and rescue Teresa before she's crippled.”

“Steph-”

“Go on,” Steph nudges her towards the area of the square given over to dancing, “it's not every day the Germans unconditionally surrender.”

Alison can't help but smile. “Thanks.”

* * *

“Mind if I cut in?” Alison asks, a combination of Steph, gin and the celebratory atmosphere making her bold. 

“Of course, Mrs Scotlock,” Stan bows out of the dance and Teresa looks first relieved then delighted. 

“Hello.”

“Hello.” Teresa's face must surely be aching by now from smiling so much, but her grin is infectious. Alison's heart skips a beat as Teresa happily takes her hands and the makeshift band play the opening notes of The White Cliffs of Dover. 

It is not the first time they have danced together, even in public, but Alison treasures the closeness, the feeling of Teresa so near, surrounded by people she regards as friends. Teresa spins her around, making her laugh, and Alison can't remember, even with George, ever being quite this happy.

In no time at all, the song fades into an upbeat It's A Long Way to Tipperary and people begin to switch partners. Teresa keeps Alison's hand in hers and they leave the crowd to retrieve Boris. 

“Ready to go home?”

Alison nods. 

Steph waves them both goodbye as they leave the celebration, the sound of singing and laughter following them all the way up the road. The sky is clear and the nearly-full moon gives just enough light to see by as they make their way up the country lane. Alison looks up to see the stars spilling out into infinity and sighs. 

“I've been frightened of the sky for so long.”

“So have I,” Teresa confesses, “but we survived.”

The darkness means it takes several attempts to unlock the door; Boris makes a beeline for his basket, and Teresa and Alison head upstairs for bed.

After brushing her teeth, Teresa curls up next to her under the covers, their feet tangled together. 

“We can take down the blackouts tomorrow,” Alison says, idly stroking her thumb along Teresa's hand. 

“Are you planning chores for our day off?” Teresa teases.

Alison turns in the bed towards Teresa and gently touches her face. “I've missed curtains that let sunlight through.”

Teresa leans in to the touch. “Me too. No more air raid sirens, either. We won't have to run down to the shelter in our nightgowns ever again, I can't believe it. Sleep, completely undisturbed.”

As if on cue, Boris, unsettled by some late-night partiers outside, begins to bark. Alison laughs and Teresa resignedly drags herself out of bed.

“Nearly undisturbed,” she says, turning on the landing light before heading downstairs to placate their dog. 

Alison reaches across to the space left in the bed by Teresa. The residual warmth is a comfort; there are still moments where she struggles to believe that she has someone with which to share her house, her heart, her life.

Boris' barks eventually quieten and Alison listens for the floorboards creaking with each step as Teresa makes her way back upstairs. The landing light goes out and moments later the mattress dips with familiar weight and a comforting arm drapes across Alison's waist.

Alison shifts closer and their breathing gradually falls in time as they drift off to sleep together.


End file.
